


These Drowning Men Do Drown

by pendragonness



Series: All Loose Things [2]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: Confessions, Hand Jobs, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Repressed Feelings, Rutting, another 4x09 sword training gone rogue-fic, more of them, what happens when I want to write smut but have a whole lotta feelings to get through first
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-27
Updated: 2017-04-27
Packaged: 2018-10-24 16:03:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10745040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pendragonness/pseuds/pendragonness
Summary: Flint wished he could speak, explain, confess away everything that plagued him: the memory of Silver's skin, the hazy taste of his mouth, the fear that he only wanted to take from John Silver, that he could not give in return because there wasn't enough of him left to give.-Set after 'All Loose Things', but can be read separately.





	These Drowning Men Do Drown

**Author's Note:**

> I love misunderstandings and lack of communication - who doesn't? Starts out a little sad, doesn't stay sad. Stick with me, friends.
> 
> Maybe one day I'll learn how to write short fics (ha).
> 
> **This was already posted (although it has since been edited considerably and rewritten a little) but...I couldn't make up my mind and kept moving things around. After the rewrites I feel better about it, so let's see how this goes. Still my contribution to an alternate 4.09 sword training scene**

There had been no ulterior motive to the sword lessons. That was what Flint repeated to himself each afternoon, once the heat had become unbearable and they were both so breathless they could hardly speak any longer. Despite the fact, of which he was brutally aware, that neither he nor Silver were quite capable of any action without a hidden motive. In this deceitful trait, at least, they understood one another, and understood they would never truly know the other.

Except that Silver knew more truth about Flint than anyone else living, and that was an undeniable fact. Since, in the past few weeks, realizing the necessary importance of moving forward together, and certainly since that night Silver approached Flint in his cabin, Flint's defenses had splintered and he had shared with his quartermaster the oldest, truest secrets he had. Silver knew what he was – Silver had toyed with that side of him, discovered it and awakened it and tasted it – but since the one modestly intimate night weeks past, they had not so much as cast a lingering glance.

Flint kept his distance intentionally, unable to dare feel the closeness of John Silver again. No matter that he ached for it – ached for the excited touch of the man, longed for the heat of Silver's mouth on his neck, twitched with desire to run his fingers through the dark, messy curls again. No. He could not take from Silver simply because he was lonely, lonely and so alone. He could not be that selfish and yet, he was not sure he had anything more in him to be. Thoughts of Thomas no longer came daily, but they never faded and the dreams, the gentle, painful dreams of moments he'd never had, those would not leave. He cared for none other than Thomas and he never would.

And John Silver seemed unaffected. Except, perhaps, that the man had grown immeasurably more somber since the war began to take form, and while the lack of incessant prattling and torment was a relief to Flint's ears, he knew growing darkness when he saw it, and he knew what it could become. He was what it could become. To think of the younger man, once so outrageously loud and blasé about the chaos of their lives, being tainted and transformed by the paths they were on, unsettled Flint more than he cared to contemplate.

When he asked – pushed – for Silver to be truthful with him, to exchange with Flint the dark, painful story of his past such as Flint had shared in an exhausted moment by a fire, Flint had intended to use this knowledge to try to save the man. But it would not be allowed and as Silver closed down – a painful motion in which Flint could see himself as he had so recently been – the longing for Silver revealed itself to be insatiable affection. But Silver had withdrawn from his captain, and Flint felt the difference pointedly: it stung like a fresh, unfair, and unexpected wound.

There had been no ulterior motive to training Silver; simply, Silver was a shit swordsman and Flint was an excellent one, and it made sense. But it also allowed the men true time alone, far from the bustling needs of their crew and the distractions of their work. It allowed Flint to look at Silver and only Silver, to smile as widely as he wished, to pretend there was no real distance between them both and that Silver returned his friendship with true emotion. He could pretend that Madi was not a force between them now, that he had not seen Silver's growing attachment and interest in the girl, and that it did not sting him. James Flint knew he did not have it in him to give Silver more than moments of physical want and flickers of affection, but to have exposed himself to the younger man and now see Silver dismiss him for the pleasure of a young woman's love, struck him deeply and selfishly.

“Was that all this was about, then?” Silver panted and eased himself back down to sit on a boulder. Sweat streaked down his temples and made his shirt stick to his chest and between his shoulders, but Flint noticed his right leg wasn't shaking like it had done so many times before.

“Pardon?” Flint returned, his brows dipping in confusion. He wasn't as winded as his partner, but more so than he'd yet been during their sessions. Silver had finally landed some solid hits of his own this time around and if Flint was honest, the man was developing a talent.

Silver tossed his sword into the sand as if bored with it. “This,” he said, “this relentless bloody training camp you dragged me in to: was it only about making me a better fighter for the sake of this damn war of yours?”

Flint nearly flinched, but he understood that the blunt words were not meant to be hostile. “What else are you asking?”

“I'm _asking_ , whether or not, as so many times before, you have other motives." Silver's pale eyes were weighing Flint as he spoke, studying, and vaguely guarded. Flint wondered what he'd done to merit such caution in this moment. "I know you want to know my past, but-”

“I'm not forcing you for that,” Flint argued, and Silver held up a hand to calm him.

“And I'm thankful – I am.”

“Then what?”

Silver watched him for a moment, stared into him, quietly reading and calculating and setting Flint's nerves on edge. Then he began to stand again: he set up the crutch and heaved himself to his feet, his body less willing than usual, tired from the long session. He stood, blue eyes murky and unreadable, oceans deep, his face disturbingly indecipherable. Flint felt his own eyes narrowing, growing tense with the waiting.

Then Silver shifted forward a step, moving unsteadily on the soft sand, drifting nearer to Flint and the older man found himself leaning away, withdrawing just the slightest. But it stopped Silver and suddenly his stoic face was turned into an expression of hurt disgust.

“I thought so,” he muttered, and immediately limped back to the boulder and dropped into his seat.

Flint stepped forward instead now, just one step, two steps, hesitating.

“I don't...” he fumbled, not knowing where his sentence was going, or what he felt like apologizing for. He didn't understand any of what had just passed. Flint stood still and struggled not to fidget, only letting his fingers clench and unclench, the muscles in his legs twitching with the desire to move. He couldn't speak, too anxious and uncertain, and sensing his own disadvantage in the scene.

Silver sighed, not looking at Flint but across the horizon of ocean surrounding them, and the hostility that had been on his face slipped away.

“I'm _asking_ , how you can dismiss this so easily,” he murmured, his low voice barely carrying across the salty air.

Flint blinked and leaned back on his heels, mind struggling to process and decipher whatever he was being confronted with. He decided on playing ignorant. “Dismiss what so easily?”

Silver turned to face him, and his expression said that he knew his captain's methods far too well and he wasn't amused. Suddenly, Flint saw how difficult this was for the younger man. For someone who had always been so quick and eloquent in any situation, whatever was happening now was a struggle.

Silver took a deep breath and turned it into a sigh, a sigh that sounded as if it weighed more than he did himself. “Will you ever let me near you again?” He asked, blunt and tired, the stress clear on his face. “Or will this always be something you have control over?”

Flint frowned to hide the trickle of panic that pinched his spine. "I don't understand.”

“Yes you do,” Silver argued, and his voice was tinged with disgust. “I know that you haven't wanted to discuss what happened between us that night in your cabin. You're...embarrassed, or ashamed, or I don't know what, but I haven't pressed you, I respected the space you wanted, and now...now, what the _fuck_ is going on?”

Flint stayed silent. Silver sighed, aggravated, infuriated, wanting to snarl but struggling to see the point of it, and his tired face shifted into angry lines.

“For fuck's sake,” he muttered through clenched teeth, “I won't throw myself at you again, if that's what you're worried about," Flint flinched, just around the eyes, "-I won't make a scene if you've decided you're tired of me. I'd understand, really. But don't you fucking....tease me like this.”

The final words were the biggest surprise in the entire unexpected rant, and Flint struggled with his own response. But he could plainly see the hurt in every edge of Silver's body, and the tender sympathy it struck in him forced his words.

“I would never intend to taunt you, Silver. Not in this way,” he said softly, and took another careful step forward. “That's not...that isn't what this is about.” He hesitated, took a slow breath, forced stiff words from his ribs. “I'm not tired of you. Please don't think that.”

“I don't know what the fuck to think anymore,” Silver responded. “You've kept me at such a distance-”

“Me?” Flint asked in disbelief, and he could hear the sharpness of his own tone. “What about you and Madi?”

Something defensive flickered in Silver's eyes. “Madi cares for me, and I for her. Don't you dare start complaining about whatever relationship we might have established, you've no bloody right. She's been there all the while you've been too damn wrapped up in your own head!”

 _She replaced me,_ Flint wanted to rage, but he merely clenched his jaw – and realized how fucking tired he was. So fucking tired, and it was so heavy. His shoulders dropped and he felt himself giving way, in that manner only Silver seemed capable of inducing.

“It's you that's in my head, John.” The whisper escaped him without consent, and it hurt, oh it hurt to say so much. To be exposed so deeply was more terrifying than James Flint believed he could tolerate – and he was more resilient than most.

“Can you even look at me?” Silver responded, and his voice had changed too – he also was tired, he also ached with something heavy and unbearable. Flint set his jaw, swallowed something that felt sickly and frightening, and looked up.

The fathomless blue eyes had softened and there was an openness on Silver's timid features that called back entirely to a handful of moments one night in Flint's cabin: a look that was curious, pleading, longing. John Silver was burdened too. He had pains and sadness and tumultuous thoughts, and a self-loathing that Flint was only noticing the first flickers of. In a very real way, it grieved Flint to begin to see these things; in another, it was almost a comfort.

Flint wished he could speak, explain, confess away everything that plagued him: the memory of Silver's skin, the hazy taste of his mouth, the fear that he only wanted to take from John Silver, that he could not give in return because there wasn't enough of him left to give.

He trembled as he took another step forward, and the tremor made him weak, and the weakness took his feet from under him, as James Flint slipped to his knees in the soft, hot sand, exhausted and humbled before his quartermaster. Flint sighed, and it shook as it left his chest. No one living had ever been more beaten down by and exhausted with their own self. His eyes did not leave Silver's.

“I'm not tired of you,” he said, so softly.

Silver sat on the stone, one hand still resting on his crutch like a staff, and he tried to decipher his captain. So many times, it seemed, Flint had fallen before him, feeble and vulnerable, whether dozing on his lap or kneeling in sand, and those actions revealed the words that could never be formed. John Silver took a breath and closed his eyes, struggling to find his bearings and remember his anger.

Their understanding after the intimacy of the captain's cabin had been mutual, he reminded himself. It was unfair for him to constantly expect more, again, something. It was unfair to feel spurned when Flint told him of Thomas Hamilton and thus made it clear that Silver could never be the previous lover he'd known. It was unfair to experience those familiar twinges of abandonment and misuse once Flint turned his attention fully to the war he hungered more for than he would ever hunger for John Silver. And when Madi came into his life, he did care for her, he did want her, and finally, someone was returning that care and want. And it was easy. And it made sense. None of what was currently happening made sense.

“John,” Hearing his forename – not for the first time – surprised him into opening his eyes, and it seemed that Flint was closer, still kneeling, his handsome face filled with distress and a longing that Silver could feel in the air between them. He could see the unsteady shake of Flint's hands, watched the fingers tremble as they reached to brush back dark curls that had fallen free of the tie.

Weeks and weeks earlier, he'd done the same thing to Flint, and Silver knew they were both thinking of it. He wondered vaguely if it was intentional, decided he didn't care. Flint's fingers were in his hair again, after so much time away from him, and he shifted closer to the body that was so near.

“James,” he muttered in return, and he could barely hold the sea-green gaze, his eyes trying to drift shut in a relieved state of bliss as the older man now ran both hands through his hair.

And then John Silver leaned forward so that he could press his nose into Flint's cheek, where he smelt the salt of sea and sweat, and felt the heat of the sun and the moment. He dropped his crutch and twisted his hands into the loose front of Flint's shirt instead, holding the man close, their chests nearly touching. Without hesitation, Flint's mouth was on his, not careful or gentle as Silver's had been when they first kissed, but hot and desperate and needy, and Silver almost shivered with satisfaction. This had been in the air surrounding them both for days, for weeks, and it snapped like a cracked dam, and out flooded wants and needs and shared desire, so much, so fast, they tumbled underneath the force. 

Flint kissed deep and full, his tongue caressing Silver's lower lip, and then pressing into Silver's own tongue; it was a heavy, overwhelming sensation, and took the breath from the younger man before he realized that he was kissing back just as deeply. His mouth slanted against Flint's, he felt teeth scrape lightly across his bottom lip, and then a tongue licked deeply into his mouth once again. It was as if the men fought to swallow each other whole, so desperate were they to regain the touches and tastes they'd been separated from.

Silver's chest heaved excitedly, his pulse suddenly spiking, and Flint grumbled into their mouths, the sensation sending a shiver down Silver's spine. He pulled Flint closer, stomachs pressed together, and Flint shifted from his position in the sand, instinctively rolling his hips up and forward, and Silver tore away from their kiss with a surprised, breathy gasp. The man beneath him wasn't hard yet, but Silver could feel the press of his cock through his trousers into Silver's abdomen, and the sensation was quickly sending blood to his own groin. The last time they'd been together, Flint had done everything in his power to restrain himself against Silver's touch; now, for whatever reason, he was opening up and Silver ached to be let in. 

“Was this your point the whole time?” Silver challenged, breathless already and not sounding as demanding as he'd hoped to be. He shoved his body into Flint's larger, thicker form, the weight of the man against him both comforting and stimulating.

“No,” Flint retorted, not as sharp as he'd intended either. He made a face then, pulling away from Silver just slightly, watching the younger man as he ran a rough hand across the square edge of the man's jaw, a caress, his palm growing accustomed to the warm skin and curls of hair. “I don't know,” he admitted. “Maybe.”

“I've missed you,” Silver whispered in response, and watched as Flint struggled not to flinch and fought his own instincts to pull away. Silver dismissed it, just as easily as he dismissed the wound it left in his gut.

“I...” Flint tried to speak, to return the sentiment, but he found himself on the brink of shutting down instead; this was so much, even if he had pined for it for weeks, it was so much and he wasn't sure he could handle it. Words choked him and the breath seized in his chest and panic threatened to rise, and Silver felt it all.

“I know,” he said softly, and kissed the reeling, red-haired man again: a warm, quick press of the lips. “Don't worry, I'll get it out of you later.” He teased, knowing it was an empty sentence, and then kissed Flint again, a gentle comfort, and he could feel a slow smile move the other's man mouth.

 _This_ was what Silver wanted, what he'd tried not to think about through days and nights, but what had slipped into his unguarded dreams all the same and left him aching. This: Flint kissing him, pushing his body into him, caressing him and holding him tight. This was leagues away from the soft, cautious touches of their first encounter - and it was Flint who led the way.

The kiss was slower than before, but just as deep and Silver could feel it going to both his head and a place much lower. Flint had a wicked tongue when necessary, and it was proving very necessary indeed. He sighed into Silver's mouth, fondling the man's bottom lip with his teeth and tongue, making the man fidget and drag his fingers down Flint's shoulders. Flint could feel the hardening cock pressing into his thigh, the sensation which, in his cabin, had reminded of him of boundaries and of risks and of what he had no right to take. But this was being given and dear God, did he want it.

Flint tugged at Silver's shirt just once, and the younger man practically tore his own clothing in two. His lean, tanned body still glistened in places with the sweat from their training session, and Flint didn't pause to think before he pressed his face into his partner's neck, where he could taste sweat and skin and feel the staggering pulse beneath his tongue.

“Oh, Christ,” Silver sighed, and his hips jerked again, earning him a satisfying grunt from his captain. The breath against his neck and soft, hot strokes of tongue mixed with long kisses sent shivers that were nearly convulsions up his spine, a sensation he'd never dealt with before. Silver panted and grit his teeth to silence a whine, hands scrabbling at Flint's back as the man sucked and kissed marks into the tender skin of his throat.

Silver thrust his hips again, and Flint pulled away enough to release a muted sigh. Silver seized the opportunity and shoved his mouth into the other man's, sliding his tongue deep and fast and hungry between Flint's lips, at the same time as his hand slid down to press into Flint's crotch. The surprised jerk of the man's body and muffled groan was more delicious than Silver had been prepared for, and he hungered for it with a blinding need. His palm pressed into the firm bulge of Flint's trousers and the man's chest heaved with a surprised intake of breath, Silver's mouth still keeping him occupied. He could feel Flint's struggle not to tense up and resist, tangling with the stress of his arousal, and Silver's chest twinged with a sadness that, now, he understood his captain's fears and restraints.

Silver released his pressure on Flint's cock to focus both of his shaking hands on the strings of the trousers instead, and he fumbled and tugged to pull them loose. Flint's hands were knotted desperately in his hair, having pulled the wave of dark curls free entirely from the hair thong, and his grip was an anchor against the waves of passion and need Silver had thrown him under. But still he refused this, making a sound of disagreement that stilled Silver's trembling hands.

John Silver's pale, clear eyes stared into Flint, centimeters away, cutting into him and trying to free the piece of the man he wanted most. The piece that Flint still could not relinquish; he shook his head, just the slightest fraction of movement, but Silver understood. Not yet.

Instead, Silver set his jaw and kissed his captain again, a hard, deep kiss that would assure them both that this was still okay, still good. He held Flint's head with one hand, keeping their mouths together, tongues languid and hot and intoxicating, and his other hand returned to palming the eager press of Flint's cock beneath the loose trousers.

Flint was trembling, chest heaving, and he shoved his great weight closer to Silver as though wanting to make them one complete form. Silver adjusted his position where he sat in front of the kneeling man so that his stomach could feel the hot, damp swell at the other man's groin. He moaned, a low, soft sound, and at the sensation of his stomach muscles moving against Flint's cock, Flint nearly choked, tearing away from Silver's mouth and leaning his forehead against the man's shoulder.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he snarled and his entire body shook as Silver shifted his clever hips again, and now nudged the restrained arousal between his legs against Flint's overstimulated one. It had been so god damned long – Flint trembled and panicked, feeling his climax peaking too quickly, coming like a hurricane, unstoppable and infuriating. He growled against the sensation, desperate to hold himself together just a little longer with the younger man.

“How's that, Captain?” Silver breathed, and the taunting edge in his tone came as a relief to Flint, so seldom did he hear it any more.

Instead of responding, Flint grit his teeth against his arousal and white-knuckled his grip on Silver's hair, knowing he was losing this battle. Silver's slender hips nudged against his in a rhythm, rutting their bodies together, encouraging the barely-restrained fire in Flint's blood to catch ablaze, to where he fucked himself against Silver's hip. And then Silver's knee slipped between one of Flint's thick thighs, rubbing against and underneath the man's cock, just right, then the captain's hips jolted and he choked on a yelp as his climax crashed with the violence of a storm. Flint struggled to grasp one of Silver's biceps in a hand while the other clawed down his back, his face pressing into the younger man's throat as he choked on the tide of his release.

It felt like a violence, the sensation of being brought to climax by someone else's will, by another man, and Flint trembled in the aftermath. Silver, never the oblivious one, cradled the back of Flint's head with a hand and dared to press his lips against the man's ear, Flint's face still hidden against his chest. He knew better than to speak – had it been anyone else in his arms, perhaps he would have, but not in this moment, with this man. He knew the best he could do was hold on. 

A quiet moment passed, breathing steadied a little, and Flint raised his head, finally, and Silver was only barely allowed to see the shattered expression on his captain's face: surprise, exhaustion, relief, sadness. And then he was kissed again, and kissing back, a warm mouth and tongue sliding comfortingly with his own, promptly working up the heat beneath his skin once more. Flint's hand slid from his bicep to between his legs, to pull at the younger man's uncomfortable trousers. He was confronted with buttons, faster than laces but no easier to manage under trembling fingers, yet before long the trousers were open wide and Flint let the thick weight of Silver's cock rest in his palm, his thumb just caressing the tip.

Silver jumped at the touch, nudging his cock further into the man's palm. Flint's wrist moved just right, and Silver keened embarrassingly. Flint broke their kiss to laugh for a moment, just a soft sound on his breath, his pale eyes fond and bright as they glanced at Silver. And Silver felt it had to be some hallucination, too good and too satisfying to be true.

His hips spasmed with sudden lack of control, and Flint huffed breathless laughter into his neck.

“Oh- oh, fuck,” Silver stuttered, “James-”

Flint nuzzled into Silver's throat and his free hand palmed tenderly at the muscled crease of Silver's hip.

“You feel...God,” Flint whispered, forcing himself to take these moments, let them exist, enjoy them and not withdraw; it would be okay. “I've wanted to touch you for so long.”

“I know,” Silver panted back, smiling just faintly and looking down at the debauched man before him, trousers and shirt loose, freckles hidden in the flush of his own skin.

Flint began to work his hand, gently, and Silver struggled not to squirm. He leaned closer, dark hair falling over Flint's bowed head like a curtain that smelt of sea salt and smoke. Silver panted, hoarse and desperate, the weight and scent of Flint's body and sex making him dizzy and frantic, as his hips spasmed without warning more than once. Then Flint kissed at his throat again, nuzzled into his collarbone, scraped teeth carefully across a smooth pec and Silver moved back to encourage easier access to his chest. He shivered, goosebumps spreading across his hyper-sensitive skin as Flint worked his cock smoother, a little faster, stealing the breath from Silver's chest before it reached his lips.

He wasn't prepared for the wet heat of Flint's tongue on his chest, and his hands gripped the man's shoulders to brace himself as Flint licked slowly, sensually, across the sensitive skin while his hand worked Silver with ease. Flint noticed the tremors that ran through Silver's body without pause, and treasured this long-forgotten sensation of a beautiful man's body against his own. He traded his tongue for the pressure of his mouth, and sucked tenderly on the golden skin of a pectoral, just close enough to a dark nipple, his tongue hot, wet, overwhelming, and it forced from Silver's chest a ragged groan as his hips jerked once more, and he came into Flint's hand.

Flint did not immediately relent, instead working Silver back down from his dizzying climax, his mouth still teasing the man's smooth, sun-darkened chest, leaving wet spots that glistened in the searing sun. He glanced up once, fondly, and saw Silver's pupils blown and a golden-red flush high on his cheeks - he looked as if he would break under anything more. Silver grabbed at Flint's shoulders and pulled him up, their chests together again, and his nose pressed into Flint's cheek as he closed his eyes and struggled to breathe.

“You alright?” Flint asked softly, and Silver grinned, remembering when he'd been asked that before.

“Fucking hell, you know what you're doing,” Silver panted in response, and then kissed him, tasting the salt of his own sweat. “Hm,” he sighed, and pressed the length of his body into Flint's once more, muttering, “Why is it that only _my_ shirt keeps coming off?”

Flint chuckled, discreetly wiping his hand on the back of his trousers before his arms encircled Silver in a massive, possessive embrace. “You're a much better sight, trust me,” he teased, and Silver laughed.

“Don't think I won't challenge that,” he warned. Flint merely pressed his face closer into Silver's shoulder, burying himself again in the smaller man.

Silver ran a hand across his captain's shorn hair, aware of this return to a state of comforting his friend, holding him and letting him rest, hoping James Flint could find some sense of peace in John Silver's arms. They remained like that for a long moment, until their own hearts had calmed enough that the distant crashing of ocean waves reminded them of where they were.

“Why did you withdraw from me, James?” Silver broke the silence, his words just a deep murmur against Flint's ear. “Earlier, when I first asked you what the training was really about: I stepped toward you, and you pulled away. You proved my point.”

“What point?”

“That you were repulsed by what had passed between us those weeks ago. That you..didn't want me.”

The arms around him tightened, and Silver felt as if he could disappear into the body pressed against him. He wished he could - just become part of this great force of a man and never have to deal with himself as he was, ever again.

“Please believe me when I tell you that's not what it is,” Flint replied, his voice soft and tired again, soothing against Silver's skin.

“Then what?” Silver asked, wishing he could be less desperate. “What is it?”

But there was only silence, and the quartermaster braced himself for the familiar sensation of his captain retreating again, words locking up and explanations being hidden away.

James Flint buried his face in the younger man's shoulder, willing his partner to understand.

“Just...please, believe me,” he whispered into Silver's skin, and both men knew that was all the explanation that would be found this day.

It wouldn't be enough, and it would only last so long, but they had both been revealed to the other. And that, at least for a while, would have to do.


End file.
